


Westward leading

by Tashilover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Religious Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John was born to be a king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Westward leading

"Do you believe in God?"

John hated that question. He hated answering it because there never seemed to be a right answer. "Why?"

"I'm curious," Sherlock said from his position on the couch. He didn't bother to lift his head towards John to ask the question, preferring to stare up at the ceiling like the answer was written there. "Do you?"

"Not particularly."

Sherlock snorted. "What a perfectly passive answer."

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock."

That answer got the man to at least sit up from the couch in mild interest. "And…?"

"And…" John shrugged. "It's hard to believe in a higher power after the things I've seen."

"Yet another perfectly passive answer.  _And?_ "

John huffed. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"It's a yes or no question."

"Fine, then!" John snapped at him. "Do you believe in God, Sherlock?"

"I used to."

John expected many a sarcastic answer. He didn't expect a sincere one. It threw him. "Really?"

Sherlock leaned back onto the couch, closing his eyes in the same manner as if he was discussing tea or the weather. John could never be sure if this was Sherlock's way of trying to protect himself or if he truly was indifferent to this conversation. "When I was younger, I believed. It's always easy to believe at that age."

"What changed?"

"I realized no one was listening."

He said it as if he just confirmed, yes, he did want sugar in his tea. If such a belief was so simple to him, then why did he bring it up in the first place?

"No," John said finally. Sherlock gave a small twitch in response. What it meant, John didn't know. "But I want to."

"Now that," Sherlock said, grinning. "Is an interesting answer. May I ask why?"

"I honestly don't know. Maybe it's that old-age question: do my actions make a difference long after I'm dead?"

"Of course it does," Sherlock hissed at him, getting up from the couch so quickly John jumped in surprise. He quickly shoved on his coat and scarf. "Stop asking such stupid questions."

"Wait, Sherlock, wait," John pleaded as Sherlock went for the door. "What's going on? What did I say?"

"Nothing, John," Sherlock said, yanking the door open. "Nothing."

 

 

 

 

The dying smiled at him.

He didn't understand why they did it and he didn't dare ask. It was not exactly a question you ask someone on their death throes.

He always tried his best to make their passing as comfortable as possible. An impossible task, he knew, when their limbs were missing, their intestines hanging and they were a thousand miles from home. He gave them morphine to dull the pain and he held their hand until they slipped away.

Every single one of them. It didn't matter if they were male, female, black or white. Just at the moment when their eyes began to dim, they would turn their heads to him and smile.

Though others have been witness to this, those moments were too far in between for them to make a connection. Nobody knew that every single person that has ever died in front of John smiled at him in contentment.

" _So pretty_ ," whispered one woman despite her eyes had been burnt out from a grenade blast.

It was a secret John would take to his grave.

 

 

 

 

John will always be surprised by how fast Lestrade took to him. John was not Sherlock, Lestrade had no reason to allow another civilian behind a crime scene just because Sherlock said so. John was sure once Lestrade realised Sherlock only brought him along for fun, he would be surely kicked out.

"You're a solider," Lestrade said to him once while at a crime scene.

"Yeah," John confirmed. "Did Sherlock tell you?"

"I may not be as observant as Sherlock, but I do know a thing or two. What rank are you?"

"Captain."

"Very nice. My younger brother was second Lieutenant. Served two tours."

It was at that moment John understood why Lestrade liked him so much. It wasn't because he was a friend of Sherlock, but because like his little brother, John was a fellow soldier who deserved respect.

John's deductions skills were not as impressive as Sherlock's, but he was able to pick up on a few subtlties in Lestrade's words. "If you don't mind me asking, when did your brother die?"

The muscles in Lestrade's cheeks tightened. "Two years ago. Bled out from a gunshot wound to his stomach."

"I'm sorry."

It was such a stupid and useless thing to say. It didn't give Lestrade any reassurance any more than it has given other families reassurance. Instead of grunting and tossing the kind words away, Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

"My... huh, brother sent me this, a week before he..."

He dropped it into John's hand. It was a small gold ring.

"Bought it from the locals. He said he wanted me to hold onto it until he came back. He hoped he could use it one day, for his future wife. Of course he didn't have a girlfriend at the time so I gave him constant grief for it."

"It's very pretty."

Though it was the truth, John only said it because he didn't know what else to say. But Lestrade looked at him as if John just told him his brother was alive and well. There was hope in his eyes. "You keep it."

John jerked. "What?"

"One solider to another. My brother would have preferred that."

"Inspector, this is..."

It was too much, he wanted to say. Lestrade should keep it for himself, give it to one of his kids. But at that moment, Sherlock suddenly jerked up, declaring the name of their murderer. In the excitment of everything, John shoved the ring into his pocket, forgetting it temporarily.

Later that night, when he pulled the ring out again, he knew Lestrade would never take it back. So John placed the ring right next to his dogtags, deciding it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

 

 

 

Once a month Mycroft liked to kidnap John off the street for a 'talk.' John knew this was Mycroft's passive-agressive way to get information on his little brother without actually, y'know, calling Sherlock on the phone. It would have been cute except it made John feel like they were constantly playing a giant game of telephone.

It didn't help Mycroft never met him in normal places. Not in coffee shops, or in bakeries, but in abandoned warehouses, offices for the insanely rich, or buildings that should have been condemned a century ago.

Today's meeting place was some aroma therapy shop near the edge of London.

The moment John entered the place he felt like he was just violently slapped with perfume. It made his nose hairs burn. "Mycroft," he said, holding up his arm to cover his nose. "Can we talk outside?"

"In a moment," Mycroft said. He was busy scooping something out of a bottle into a paper bag. "I wish to buy this."

John didn't bother waiting for him. He ran outside into the cold air and gratefully took a deep breath.

A minute later, Mycroft came out with bag in hand, the smell of various perfumes trailing behind him. "I didn't realize you were so sensitive to smell."

"Many doctors have to be. Smell detects a lot of things our eyes can't see."

"Interesting."

"Is there something you want, Mycroft? Because as much as I love our time together, I would really like to be getting back home."

Mycroft wasn't used to getting sarcasm from someone who wasn't Sherlock. John always took maniac glee when he saw Mycroft's mouth thin out and his eyes narrow. It meant John hit a nerve. That didn't happen this time. "Something is going to happen very soon, John," Mycroft said. His hand tightened around the folded flaps of his paper bag. "Something big."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

Myrcoft shook his head. "I can't. I just... see the signs. I'm sure Sherlock has seen them too. I'm just asking you to prepare yourself."

"Wow, that's really informative. I am so glad you kidnap me off the streets just for that. Because texting me or calling me was too hard, I appreciate this face-to-face conversation. Really."

John couldn't keep the sarcasm from dribbling out of his mouth. He expected Mycorft to retaliate, maybe say something annoyingly witty to remind John he wasn't as smart as he thought he was.

Mycroft merely handed over the paper bag to John. "Here. A belated housewarming gift."

"I moved in over a year ago."

"That's why it's called a 'belated gift.' The car will drop you off where you need to go."

And without waiting around for an answer, Mycroft walked away. His head was tilted slightly up as if he was looking at the sky.

John opened up the paper bag. The aroma of weak lemon and spice wafted to his nose. It smelled nice.

 

 

 

 

The deaf listened to him.

"How old is she?" Sherlock asked, his eyes sideways at the little girl sitting quietly in the police car. She idly played with her black hair while keeping her head down. She wasn't bored, John could see, but anxious. Scared, most likely.

"We don't know," Lestrade admitted. "She refuses to talk. Right now Donovan is checking for any reports of missing children submitted in today. Hopefully we'll be able to find her parents."

It was crimes like these John wished Sherlock didn't take. This little girl was found in a locked room, with two dead bodies and no murder weapon. Judging from stages of rigor mortis, that girl had been in the company of the corpses for nearly five hours.

Lestrade and Donovan tried to talk to he girl and got no response. All she did was stare off into space as if she couldn't understand them. They refused to let Sherlock get anywhere near her.

Finally, John couldn't take it anymore. "Can I talk to her?" He asked suddenly, startling both Lestrade and Sherlock. "Maybe there's a reason why she refuses to speak."

The EMT had already looked her over and declared her to be in perfect health; John's accession was not needed.

Lestrade bit at his lip, considered it, then nodded. "I suppose I see no harm. I would like to get her reunited with her parents as soon as possible."

John wiped his hands on his jeans and hoped no one saw him. It wouldn't be right for them to notice his sudden nervousness. Why did he volunteer to do this? He hadn't worked pediatrics in years, he should let someone with more experience take over.

Despite his inner-turmoil, John kneeled down in front of the girl. She the only indication she gave of acknowledging his presence was with a little tremble of her chin.

As gently as he could, John said, "Hi."

At his voice, the girl's head shot up. Her eyes were wide.

"I'm John," he said, continuing. "What's your name?"

She gaped at him. For a few seconds, John thought he scared her and wasn't going to get a response. Slowly, carefully, the girl lifted her fingers.

She signed at him, " _A-P-R-I-L_."

From the back, John heard Lestrade take a sharp breath. "She's mute?"

John ignored him. "April? That's a very pretty name. Would you be so kind to tell me what happened here?"

It had been years since John studied sign language but he was able to understand April just fine. For ten minutes he 'listened' to her, relaying the information to Sherlock and Lestrade behind him.

The minute Sherlock deduced who the killer was, Lestrade had men running out, readying to seize and arrest.

John turned back to April. "Thank you," he said, smiling. "You were a big help."

 _"You sound like a bell,"_  she signed to him.

John had to snort at that. "Well, that's a first time my voice has ever been compared to a bell."

"John," Donovan interrupted him. "The parents are here."

John stepped aside and allowed the parents to crowd in, kneeling in front of their little girl, signing faster than John could follow. He waited patiently, unsure if he should leave. His job here was done.

Suddenly the actions of the parents became erratic. They pointed at John, their movements a lot more defined as if emphasizing something.

"Did I do something wrong?" John whispered to Donovan. She shrugged.

The father got to his feet. He faced John. "Excuse me," he said carefully. "My daughter says you spoke to her and she heard you. Is that correct?"

"Um... yes, that is correct. Is something wrong?"

The father turned back to the mother who wrapped her hands around April's eyes. "April," the father said loudly and clearly. " _April_."

April didn't respond.

The father turned back to John. An ugly look had settled over his face. "My daughter is deaf," he spat, offended. "How dare you lie to me."

John gaped. That was impossible, the girl clearly heard him. Lestrade and Sherlock were witness to that. "I-"

Thankfully at that moment Lestrade chose to step in. Sherlock grasped John by the arm and started to lead him away. When John dared a look back, April waved shly to him.

Later, after the parents took their daughter home, John looked to Sherlock, hoping he'd have an answer to what happened.

"Maybe she was reading your lips," Sherlock explained. It was a rational enough explanation, except John could tell Sherlock didn't believe it himself. His face was pinched in irritation and he was staring at John like he'd never seen him before.

 

 

 

 

When they got home, Sherlock was clearly still irritated about today's events. "What's wrong?" John asked, huffing. "What's the problem?'

Sherlock took off his coat and threw it across the room. He ran a hand through his hair, pointed at John, as if he was about to cuss at him, and dropped his arm, shaking his head. "Has that happened before?"

"What?"

" _That_ , John! That! Has it happened before?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! The irate father? The sign language?"

"She was  _deaf_ , John! Deaf! She heard you! How? How?"

He had no answer to give. John lifted his arms in the universal, 'I-don't-know-what-you-want-me-to-say' gesture. "You said it yourself: she must've been reading my lips."

"NO. This was something else, something never seen before. We all fucking saw it, John. She heard you. I have only seen something like this  _once_  and this was..." Sherlock's eyes went wide as he seemed to come to a conclusion. "This was a miracle, John," he breathed in awe. "You performed a miracle."

John took a step back. "There's no such things."

"Not in the last two thousand years there hasn't," Sherlock said, his confidence building at his own confirmation. "Have there been other miracles, John?"

John thought of the dying woman, her eyes burnt out of her skull and yet she smiled at him as if he were the sun coming out on a rainy day. John shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"There  _are_ ," Sherlock hissed. He was getting more and more excited by the minute. "What were they, John? Did you heal the sick? Created light when there was none?"

John tried to move aside, to get away from this situation and Sherlock blocked his path. He was breathing hard-  _both_  of them were, though clearly for different reasons.

"I should have seen it earlier," Sherlock continued. "The gifts from my brother, Lestrade. There'll be a third coming. Soon, I know."

"Sherlock, will you just tell me what is going on! Why are you-?"

"For pity sakes, John!" Sherlock suddenly exploded, throwing his arms wide. "Isn't it fucking obvious? Can't you see the clues presented here? You! When you are present, the deaf hear and the blind see. You are... He."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"You will," Sherlock promised. He giggled lightly, almost hysterically, jerking his head to the side to cut the noise off. "This whole time I thought you were following me. I should have known it was other way around."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the movie Dogma. Title taken from the song 'We Three Kings'.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnIFTtW1pko


End file.
